


Artichoke

by ArdenInTheGarden



Category: Smile For Me (Video Game)
Genre: Drunkenness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fist Fights, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Violence, Vomiting, Wakes & Funerals, missing an ex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-28 23:47:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21145232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArdenInTheGarden/pseuds/ArdenInTheGarden
Summary: A phone call, a codeword, a funeral. Two friends navigating the world together.





	Artichoke

The phone was ringing. Tiff didn’t know how long it had been going off, but she knew she didn’t have the energy to reach for it. If it was important they would leave a message, and if it wasn’t then she had no reason to pick up anyway. She had just finished a performance a few hours ago, and she was trying to get some sleep before the next one in the morning. Trencil’s late-night chats were always lovely, but she struggled to tell him that she was tired and wanted to hang up. The last call had been over an hour while he talked to her about what “today’s youths find, how did Nat put it, “radical”?” and she couldn’t handle another one right now.

The answering machine lit up, and she groaned as she swatted the button to hear the message. After a pause, a muffled sob was audible, and a single word: “artichoke”. The machine began its automatic message regarding saving or deleting messages, but she was already out of the room and sprinting for the bathroom.

_ Artichoke _ . The single word echoed in her mind as she hurriedly tugged on clothing and swished some mouthwash. She had a toothbrush there she could use, for now, she just needed to make it to him. He knew better than to use that unless he meant it, and the anxiety was already clawing through her just like her fingers through her hair.

It had started as a silly conversation--Boris had talked to her about artichoke dip one night while they were hanging out, and how he could never seem to purchase one in order to make it. She had teased him, and they had laughed about how artichokes were harbingers of doom. It turned more serious. They ended up deciding that “artichoke” would be a code word of sorts. If either of them ever needed something but didn’t want to discuss it over the phone, they could say it and the other would know it was an emergency, or upsetting enough to need to be discussed in person.

So she found herself driving at least 20 over the speed limit in what was just barely not her pajamas in the wee hours of the morning. Drunk friends were still pouring out of the recently closed establishments, and she could hear them singing even through her rolled-up windows. She flicked on the radio, unwilling to listen to the world as it rushed past behind a rain-streaked windshield.

She hummed along to the song, trying to calm her nerves. Her voice wavered and broke as she slammed on her breaks, the red light suddenly manifesting in her awareness. Right. She was driving. There were stoplights. She was okay. She took a steadying breath, slipping off her glasses and rubbing her eyes with her fist. She drove the rest of the way at  _ exactly _ the speed limit, since speeding wouldn’t get her there faster if it meant getting pulled over in the process.

The door was unlocked when she tried it, and she was thankful that she didn’t have to knock. It was far too early for her to try and make her way into the tiny house if it were  _ locked _ . The house was small, so there weren’t many places for him to be hiding, but that didn’t make it any less odd and distressing that he wasn’t in plain view when she entered.

“Boris…?” She followed the sound of hiccups and sniffles to the bathroom, and was dumbfounded by what she found. Boris was sitting on the floor of his shower, fully clothed, with the water running over him. “What are y-- _ Boris? _ What are you  _ doing?” _

He looked up at her with the most pitiful look she had ever seen. “Мать!” He drew a ragged breath before burying his face in his hands. “Tiff I have to go home!”

“Borya, you  _ are _ home.” She knelt at the side of the tub, putting a hand over his knee-- _ geez _ this water was cold! “Hey, come on, let’s get you outta here and we’ll talk, okay?” He was resistant, but after a few attempts at gently tugging on his arm he got up and shut off the water. “Where do you keep your towels?”

He gestured towards the hall closet, one hand still over his face as he tried to calm himself.

“Alright, come on. Let’s get you dried off. I’ll have some dry clothes waiting on the bed for you when you’re ready.” She offered him a reassuring smile and squeezed his hand before shutting the door and making a beeline for the bedroom. He was sad, and wet, and his breath smelled like the bottle of wine they had been saving for the next poker night.

Her fingers made their way automatically through his closet as she looked through his clothing, only halfway paying attention to what she was grabbing. Pajamas. Pajamas would work. She was only in sweatpants and a tank top so he wouldn’t feel self-conscious of being underdressed, at least.

She didn’t know what the word he’d said meant in the shower, but she was certain she’ find out soon enough. She hadn’t seen him this distraught since the day he’d had to see them all in court. She shuddered at the memory.

A tired sneeze announced Boris’s presence as he stood shivering in the doorway. “Tiffany?” He approached the bed, a towel wrapped tightly around his body as he grabbed at his clothes. “Thank you for coming.”

“Of course. I told you I’d always be here if I could be, and this is one of the times I could.” She turned away, politely ignoring the sound of the towel dropping to the floor and clothing being tugged on. “How much did you drink?”

It took a moment before he responded, and she was half-afraid he was ignoring her, but he put a hand on her shoulder and wrapped his arms around her in a hug. “Too much.” He murmured, his voice noticeably hoarse now that she was able to hear him better. “I...Tiff, I have to go back to see my parents. My--my  _ parent _ .” He was close to tears again, tightening his grip on her. “Мать, my mother, is--she’s gone. I got the--the call right before I talked to you. She passed two days ago and I--” He sobbed, crushing her under his grasp. “I have to go back and help with her funeral. They didn’t tell me sooner because  _ I’m not family!” _ With that, he came undone at his seams, leaning heavily against her for support.

“Oh Borya, I’m so sorry.” She was at a loss for words. She knew that he had had a bad relationship with his parents, but she hadn’t known the extent of it. To accuse him of not being family was terrible, but to  _ not tell him about a death? _ She truly was surprised and disgusted by their behaviour. Her hands wove their way through his hair to cup his cheeks as she twisted to face him. “What can I do? What would help you right now?”

He simply shook his head. There was nothing she could do. Or, rather, nothing he  _ wanted _ her to do for him. He didn’t deserve it. He didn’t want it. He would refuse it if she tried. He pulled back from her touch, pushing her hands away as gently as he could manage. It wasn’t her fault he was like this, and it wouldn’t be fair to punish her as if it was. She hadn’t made any mistake other than caring for him.

“I can hear those gears turning.” Tiff backed away, clasping her hands in front of herself in what she hoped was a respectful manner. She would respect his need for space, as much as it pained her to do it. He needed something that he had never seemed to have received:  _ love. _ The real question was a matter of getting him to accept it. “Penny for your thoughts?” Unless his thought was a sniffle, he didn’t share anything. That was fine. She could make this work within his comfort levels.

His still-wet hair clung to his face where it could touch, leaving wet spots on his shirt that brought to mind the Rorschach tests she’d been shown in school She briefly wondered if for part of his therapy he’d been made to look at them? The butterflies of his youth reflected in twisted blotches of ink that seemed to well up from the paper in mocking, clinical tests.

“I think...I don’t want to go.” He shivered, seating himself on the bed and dragging the quilt off the top of it and wrapped it around his shoulders. “But I have to. Отец is too old to do it himself, and it’s expected of me to be there. I have to go.”

“But you don’t have to go alone.” He looked up from his lap, disbelief on his face. He hadn’t heard her correctly. There was no way. His mind was as blank and static-y as the screen when his PSAs ended. He was tired. And drunk. “Boris? Do you want me to go with you?”

He nodded slowly, the world around him moving much too quickly for his liking. Perhaps the second bottle of wine had been too much. This would be a perfect moment for a scrapbook.  _ ‘1995--taken before showing up drunk to my own mother’s funeral!’ _ Perfect.

“When is it?” One of Tiff’s hands rested on his knee again, and it felt like it was made to rest there, the way it perfectly seemed to fit. The way she seemed to nestle into his arms so nicely when he was breaking down. The way she...the way  _ she _ . It didn’t matter what it was, she was just perfect.

“Tomorrow.” He paused, looking over at his alarm clock on the nightstand and squinting at the soft glow of the red numbers. “Today. This afternoon. Twelve hours from now.” He scratched his nose, his stomach churning at the thought of going. The room swung violently beneath his feet as he struggled to the bathroom, Tiff’s arm snaking around his waist to help support and guide him.

He gripped the toilet as if his life depended on it and retched. Tiff cooed sweet nothings to him, holding his hair back and kneeling beside him. He was hot and his skin felt sticky and the world was spinning all too fast for him.

After mouthwash and a hug, the pair shambled back into the bedroom. “Alright, Boris. We need to sleep, but first we need to plan. Do you know where we’re going? Have you ever been there before?” He nodded, already crawling under his blankets. “Hey now, I need you awake for this. How far away is it? What do we need to bring?”

“Flowers. Blini. Koliva. We--oh no. There’s so much to do.” He sat up, resting his head in his hands and massaging his temples. “I’ve never made these before. I have to go to the store, I don’t have anything we’ll need to cook, and there’s nothing open, and nowhere to get flowers, and I need to get myself dressed properly. Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear indeed.”

“Hey. Breathe, alright? There’s a grocery mart about a half-hour away in the next town over, we can grab what we need and at least start on that. Do you have a suit? I need to stop by my house to get a dress, and you’ve got flowers growing outside. You start looking up recipes, I’ll start making a list of everything we’ve gotta get and from where. You and me? We’ve got this. We’re a team.” Tiff squeezed one of his hands between hers, and didn’t let go until he offered a small smile and a nod. “Good man. Let’s get to work.”

  
  


The next hour passed in a blur of phone calls, frantic Internet searches, and a heap of different lists, all piled up on the counter together. The pair inspected their work, each leaned tiredly against the other. “This...should be it.” Boris couldn’t help the jaw-cracking yawn that escaped him, his free hand brought up to smother it. “Where should we go first?”

“Bed.” Tiff responded before she could even think, and offered a sheepish laugh in response to her haste. “I think bed might do us both some good. We can take it in shifts. I’ll cook the blini while you nap, you cook the koliva, and then we both crash for a few hours.” She rested her head on Boris’s chest as they talked, her arms wrapped loosely around his waist. He was an immense wall of a man, and she appreciated his soft nature. He was like a big pillow.

Boris huffed a laugh, glancing down at his companion as she wormed her way into a closer embrace. “You sleep first, then.” It wasn’t a question, nor was it up for debate. He picked her up, resisting the temptation to throw her over his shoulder like a bag of flour, and carried her back to the bedroom. “Sleep well.”

“Only an hour.” She warned, doing her best to look stern. Her efforts were undermined by the instant jump in how tired she was, struggling to keep her eyes open long enough to threaten him. She didn’t know what she’d do if he let her sleep longer than her fair share. Probably feel bad, she guessed, but there wasn’t much else she could do besides that.

  
  


_ “Tiff. Tiffany. It’s your turn to cook.” _ Boris’s warm baritone interrupted the dreamless sleep she had fallen into, and she bit back the groan as she cracked one eye open. “Do you want to go back to sleep?”

Every fiber in her being wanted that more than anything, but she forced herself to sit up. “No, no. It’s your turn. You’ve got the recipe pulled up for me?” That was a pointless question. They had already written it down, and kept it pulled up on his computer, and had written it down a  _ second _ time upon his insistence.  _ ‘What if we lose it?’ _ She supposed she couldn’t blame him. These things had to be done right. She hadn’t been to a funeral since her gran had passed when she was a kid, but she could vividly recall the stress everyone was under for things to go off without a hitch.

“You’ll wake me when you’re finished?” In a flail of limbs and hair, he struggled not to strangle himself in the blankets as he crawled into them. She didn’t know why he insisted on wrapping up like that, but to each their own. It wasn’t her place to judge. “Please?”

“I’ll wake you, I promise. Get some rest.” And he did. One brow quirked as she glanced back at the snoring blanket lump that had so quickly replaced her friend. He had been just as tired as he looked, it seemed.

Her hands busied themselves with work, her thoughts far off from the cramped kitchen she stood in. She wondered what they were like, his parents? Not kind from what she'd heard, but she'd never pressed it. If Borya wanted to talk about it, he would.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Tiff began singing. She didn't have any words, but she didn't need any. The sound was melancholic, rising into the hopeful peaks of love, then plummeting into mournful waves of despair. Before she knew it she was dancing with the air, holding around the figure of someone she had once loved. Maybe she should call Ron. Maybe she should ask for one last dance, one last chance to feel his arms around her as they rocked to the rhythm, two bodies entwined and moving as one.

But she was holding air. He wasn't here, and she had made that choice. It wasn't healthy, really, being nothing more than an ear to listen and a shoulder to cry on, but that didn't mean she didn't miss him. "Nostalgia's a Hell of a drug, eh Boris?" She looked over at his sleeping form, taking in the details of his face pressed against his pillow, the way his hair was a wild tangle that poofed around him like a cloud. He looked awfully peaceful. Content. It was good to see him without the distressed crease of his brow or the worried wrinkles around his eyes.

Boris’s shoulder was gently pushed on, and his snoring gave way to a confused mumble. “Scoot over. I want some blanket.” It took a bit of coaxing, but he peeled off several thick blankets and offered them to her. Before she could even thank him he was back asleep, and she chuckled. A few hours’ sleep would do them both some good.  
  


When Tiff awoke next, she was suffocatingly hot, the sweat clinging to her skin like dew on a morning flower. Boris’s arms were wrapped around her, and she had been pulled up over his chest in a bear hug. He seemed content to roast her like a turkey in his body heat and the swaddling blanket cocoon, but she was less enthusiastic about it. It was almost time to get up anyway, but she was dreading the coming hours.

How long did funerals last? What was she supposed to say to his family? Their friends? What was she even supposed to say to Boris? Hopefully the words found her easier in the moment than now.

Tiff’s hand slid under one of Boris’s arms, effortlessly peeling it off and setting it aside, and then the other. He grumbled something, narrowly avoiding grabbing back onto her. He satisfied his need to cuddle something with the pillow she had fallen asleep on, cooing something unintelligible to it and giving it a little pat. She struggled to keep a straight face, bringing a hand to her mouth to hide her laughter.

He had a way of easing her doubts that she appreciated. This was what friendship was  _ supposed _ to look like. Two people supporting one another, sharing good times and bad ones, growing side-by-side. That was the goal, wasn’t it?  
  


Today was one of the bad times. He was holed up in the bathroom when she returned from grabbing her clothing and other necessities from home, the door locked from the inside. He had been in there for over half an hour since her return and who knew how long before that, and no amount of her coaxing had convinced him to leave. She felt  _ sick _ listening to him and knowing there wasn’t anything else to do to help him. He would come out in his own time, and until then she had to just sit on her ass and twiddle her thumbs and do  _ nothing to help that poor man. _

She caught sight of her own eyes in the mirror, scrutinizing her face with feigned indifference. The service started in an hour and a half, and it would take an hour to drive there, and neither of them were ready to leave in the slightest.

Boris’s voice was hoarse as he called her, but it was audible nonetheless. “Tiff?” The door unlocked and opened a crack, one of his eyes peeking out. “I need your help.” He was still sniffling, his stomach tied in knots as he looked around, half-expecting to see someone else materialize to tell him he’ failed. At what, he wasn’t sure, but that didn’t matter. He existed in a state of perpetual shortcomings,

His tie was undone, hanging loosely around his neck as he fiddled with the ends of it. He couldn’t meet her gaze, but it was difficult to look far enough down that he achieved that without being bent at a ninety-degree angle to the floor. He should be ashamed of himself for imposing on her like this. He had dragged her out of bed, forced her to listen to him spill his guts, made her cook while he slept, locked her out of the bathroom, and was about to haul her all the way out to a funeral for someone she’d never met. He was  _ disgusted _ with himself.

“You don’t have to come with me. I changed my mind. Go home.” He pushed her hands away from his throat, holding them in a too-tight grip. “You shouldn’t--I shouldn’t have asked this. I think you should go enjoy your day with something else.”

“You stop that,  _ right now _ .” He blinked in surprise, shrinking back from her tone. “I’m here because I want to be, and do you know why? It’s because I care about you. It’s because you need to be safe. It’s because you’re worth more than you give yourself credit for. It’s because all of this unkindness you’ve dealt with wasn’t deserved, and I know you internalized a lot of it, and I don’t ever wanna hear you talk down about yourself again. That’s my friend you’re talking about, and it makes me sad to hear you say mean things about him or treat him like he’s not a person.”

“But--”

“No buts, or wells, or see heres, or anything of the sort. That’s how it is, sugar, and I’m not going to back down on that. Now put your hands down and tilt your chin up.” She did it herself, maneuvering him into the proper position before he could even respond. “What kind of knot do you want?”

“What...kind…?” He stared blankly at the ceiling he had been made to face, trying to process what she was asking of him.

“Yeah. Windsor? Trinity? Four-in-hand? There are a lot of different ways to tie it.” Tiff pursed her lips as she watched the gears turning in his mind. “I’ll just do a simple one.” There was no need to overwhelm him with the options. “There! You go put on your slacks and jacket and I’m going to go do my makeup, okay? We’re almost out of time.”

He obediently went to his closet, grabbing out the suit from the back. He hadn’t worn it since his days in court several months ago, and he didn’t even know when before that. It felt so stiff and formal, and only had bad memories attached. His sadness formed the stitches that held it together. Perhaps he was like that himself. He followed her into the bathroom, watching her apply her lipstick with impressive precision. He had never seen anyone do it so quickly while still maintaining accuracy. Truly, she was powerful.

“You’ve got the food and the flowers ready?” She mad moved onto mascara, one eye closed as she groomed her lashes.

“They’re on the table.”

“And you’re ready to leave once I’m done with this?” The staccato beat of her words as she focused made him smile despite the anxiety. She looked silly like that, with the face she was making as she worked like the faces he liked to make at children.

“Ah...sort of…I won’t ever be any more ready, though.” He slowly reached over, plucking her glasses from the counter and slipping them on. They were too small for him, and the entire room looked warm and pink. He understood why she liked wearing them now.

“We’ll get you through this. Come on.” She took her glasses back from him, grabbing one of his hands to give it a tight squeeze. “I’ll go start the car, okay? You bring the things we’re bringing down.”

“Tiff, you don’t have to drive, I can do it. It wouldn’t be fair to make you drive.” He frowned sympathetically, holding onto her and pulling her a bit closer against him. He appreciated the warmth of her body, and the surprising strength she possessed as she held onto him. She was lean muscle, and he had no doubts she had the capability of breaking a bone or two of his.

“I prefer driving, really. I’d rather be actively doing something than sitting.” Tiff’s car was waiting for them as they exited the house, food tucked under one arm and the flowers under the other. The tension was obvious as the climbed in, Boris pushing his seat as far back from the dashboard as possible.

“Tiff?” He looked over at her, watching the way the sunlight outlined her like a heavenly figure from an old painting. “I need to tell you something.”

“Before we leave or while I’m driving?” Sunglasses  _ clicked _ as they folded and were stored in the center console. The keys dangled in the ignition, awaiting the lounge singer’s decision to put them to use.

“While we’re driving.” The engine started. Suburban housing blended together into a blur of off-white and baby blue as she drove, occasionally glancing over at him. He fell into silence, contemplating his words even as the town melted behind them and they were greeted by the embrace of a tree flanked highway.

“Мать and Отец--my parents--are...they…” No. He couldn’t say it. He struggled to come up with an excuse for asking to talk, anything she might need to know about them but  _ that _ . “They’re Orthodox. The funeral service might be different than what you’re expecting.” That was good. That was acceptable, yes.

“What do I need to do? Or maybe  _ not _ do?” Her Gran had been Baptist, but Orthodox was another beast, she supposed. Especially since he wasn’t American. Did that factor into it? She didn’t know.

“There will be people there from the church. They'll read scripture, and there will be singing, and then we'll say goodbye." He was leaned against the window, his eyes following the power lines as they passed him. He counted the poles for lack of anything else to occupy his mind.

"Am I expected to know the words or will there be a hymnal?" Her voice was calm and cool, but her fingertips drummed over the steering wheel in rhythmic thumps that ignored the beat of the radio. He didn’t know when she’d turned it on, but it was nice to have something to listen to other than silence.

“I’m not sure.” His responses were lame and quiet, and he briefly wondered how long it would take for Tiff’s anxiety to take over and she would feel compelled to ask. She had never liked the quiet as long as he’d known her. Perhaps that was why she had stayed with Ronbo for so long. Someone to listen to. He wondered why he himself now preferred the quiet, after always being one known for his propensity to talk for hours. It didn’t matter, he supposed. Not really.

The church loomed ahead of them on the horizon like a sleeping giant, a relic from a bygone era of the dentist’s life. Mourners were still filing into the building as Tiff parked, and the two newest additions to the throng stiffly exited the vehicle. They instinctively found one another’s hands, holding tightly as they approached the massive, ornate building. It was there before them, and so too would it persist after they were gone. He gave her hand a squeeze, took a shaking breath, and pushed open one of the doors.

The room was a sea of black and white, divided sharply between the clergy and the family. The room was decorated with all sorts of flowers and candles, and many of the people held a candle of their own. Boris’s breathing was short and choppy, his grip crushing Tiff’s hand as they slowly moved forward.

He was  _ terrified _ . His steps were automatic, his mind as empty as the heart of the woman who lay dead ahead of him. He hadn’t seen his mother in nearly two decades, and this wasn’t how he had expected to see her again--at least not so soon. He hadn’t expected this to happen so soon. 

“Tiff, I’m scared.” He whispered, not wishing to let anyone else around him know how poorly he was handling this. He was the son of the deceased, he wasn’t supposed to feel like he was the one who’d died. “I--” He stopped suddenly, pulling her tightly against him in an awkward embrace. There, standing off to the side in the front of the room, was his father.

Отец looked exactly the same as he remembered, aside from the small changes age brought to his features. He had his hands clasped behind his back, an unaffected frown on his face. Hardly the picture of grief. He was speaking to a family friend, one of their hands on his arm as they offered their condolences and then followed the small trail of those bidding their farewells. His eyes narrowed as he caught sight of the pair of them. “Boris.”

“Отец.” Boris’s voice was little more than a whimper in reply, shrinking away under his glare. Despite his significant height advantage, as well as his additional bulk, he still felt tiny in comparison. He couldn’t defend himself all those years ago, and he still couldn’t now. He was a disgraced man who had barely even been invited, and his father was a well-respected former doctor. A pediatrician, if one could believe it. How many other little boys had he seen and wondered why they were worthy of the praise from his father but he wasn’t? How many days had he accompanied his father at the clinic and seen his smile, yet never at home?

“Who is this?” Brendan’s sharp, scrutinizing gaze was passed from his failure of an offspring to the young woman who stood at his side.

“I’m his--”

“ красотка , you haven’t met my father yet. This is my wife, Tiffany.” He held her closer against him, one hand gently squeezing her shoulder as he leaned down to kiss her forehead.

Tiff felt like she had just been punched in the gut, but handled it with a calm smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.” She stretched onto her toes, and without hesitation pressed a kiss to his lips. Her grip on the back of his neck was the only thing that kept him from recoiling from a sensation so familiar yet so odd. She was the first woman he had ever kissed except for Martha, and it--he didn’t want to think about that.

“Save your kisses for your mother.” Brendan, the last living person to hold onto the title of Dr. Habit, pushed them both apart, and in the direction of the casket.

Tiff moved to react, but a hand held in front of her stopped her from moving. Boris grit his teeth, squaring his shoulders as he recovered from the shove. He could accept whatever treatment he was given--he was used to it--but he couldn’t let his father put his friend through the same thing. “Come on, Tiff.” He did his best to ease his tone into one of softness, holding onto her hand and rubbing the back of it with his thumb. He’d protect her.

“We go around this direction?” She sounded firey at his side, and though he couldn’t see her eyes through her lenses he had no doubt they’d hold the heat of her ire in them. She gestured anti-clockwise, and he nodded, not taking his eyes off of his father.

“Yes, we go that way. Drop your flower in so you don’t have to kiss.” He followed her around from behind, still holding her hand, and watched as she dropped her flower.

He felt disgusted as he looked down at the woman who had given him life but never given him  _ a _ life. His youth had been spent cowering in fear while she watched on with a detached frown. Her now-closed eyes had once held nothing but contempt, and he felt years of hatred welling up in him as he stood there. He dropped his flower and began to follow Tiff away.

A rough hand pushed his shoulder back, and he flinched at the sensation. His father was glowering up at him, his words laced with poison. “Kiss and pray! That is your  _ mother _ , Boris, and you will show her the proper respect.”

“He doesn’t have to do anything he’s uncomfortable with!” Tiff lit up, taking a step forward in his defense. “Why would y--”

“ _ Tiffany. _ ” Boris gave her an icy look, and she looked at him with betrayal. It cut him to the quick, and he turned away in shame. He shouldn’t have snapped. He shouldn’t have taken his father’s side. He shouldn’t have hurt the person in his life that cared the most about him. But he did. “I can handle this, I promise. Go sit, please.” There was pain in his voice as he dismissed her, and it felt like a piece of him was walking away as she left.

“Now.” Brendan’s tone was pure venom as he regarded the cowering figure in front of him. No number of reassuring false smiles to his wife was going to change the fact that he was a failure, but it wouldn’t be difficult to remind him of his place. Even in those quick, empty smiles, he could see the hole in his row of teeth, the one knocked out almost thirty years ago. He regarded it with smug satisfaction as Boris kissed the headband, and then the cross, and slowly, awkwardly,  _ painfully _ lowered himself for his prayers.

Boris’s knees met the thin carpeting of the church, and as he bent to touch the floor he caught sight of his father. Suddenly he wasn’t in the church anymore. He was once again a little boy, trembling under his father’s hateful smile--the only time he ever did so at home. He was preparing himself for his punishment for whatever it was he’d done. But he wasn’t a child. He was an adult, and he had value, and he wasn’t going to pray for a woman who hadn’t earned his love or forgiveness.

He stood sharply, tilting his chin up and setting his jaw. “No.”

“What did you say? It wasn’t a question, Boris. _ Now. _ ” His father’s eyes were wide in surprise at his son’s refusal.

“She doesn’t deserve it, and I’m not going to pray for her.” He crossed his arms over his chest, determined to stand his ground for once in his life. Like the phoenix, he was determined to rise from the ashes of his own crumbled life. He had lost his dental license, and his friends, and his childhood, and his sense of self-worth, and he wasn’t going to let his parents continue to control how he saw himself or acted.

His father raised a fist, but Boris was too quick for him by far. In a flash, his fist collided with his father’s face, and screams rang out as the two became engrossed in a scuffle. Boris had the advantage of height and reach and years of unresolved anger, and was very clearly out ahead in the fight. Finally,  _ FINALLY _ , his father was the one at  _ his _ mercy!

“How’s that, daddy? Looking at your own blood and wondering if he’s going to spill yours tonight!?” Tears streamed down his face as he held a clenched fist in front of himself, his other hand holding his father by the collar. It was an empty victory, not the catharsis he’d always imagined it might be. His father  _ deserved this _ , so why didn’t it feel good?

The screaming became all too loud, all too much, more than he could handle. He covered his ears, dropping his father to collect himself and tend to his wounds. A single tooth was rested at Boris’s shoes, and he couldn’t fight back the hysterical laughter that escaped him.

“Borya!” Tiff’s voice was far off and fuzzy, just one of the dozens clamoring over one another to be heard as he was dragged out of the church by the sleeve of his shabby suit. “Borya!”

The world felt dull and muted as he looked it over again, shielding his eyes against the too-bright sunlight. Hands swam into his field of vision, and was acutely aware of the fact that he may faint. The only thing that was keeping him upright was the arm wrapped around his waist, the other occupied in pressing something against his face.

_ Ow _ . “Boris, you’re hurt. How badly did he get you? I shouldn’t have sat down, I am so sorry, Borya. I think it’s broken.” Tiff was rambling, tears running down her face as well as she fretted over the tall man now leaned heavily against her. “Your nose is bleeding, I think we should take you to the doctor, I don’t know how hard you hit your head.”

“I’m fine.” He replied awkwardly, unable to watch her crying.

“ _ I’m not! _ Artichoke, Borya! I’m--Boris, I’m scared for you. I don’t know what happened! One minute I was talking to a woman and the next minute everyone was screaming and bracing the casket to keep it from tipping and you and him were on the floor and it was  _ scary _ , Boris!” She couldn’t hold back the words as they flowed like her tears. “I don’t know how badly you needed that but you brought me here and left me and then  _ fought someone! _ You were  _ fighting someone in front of me!”  _ She pulled her hands away from him, leaving the blood-soaked wad of tissues in his hands to tend to himself.

"He deserved it! I--Tiff, he did terrible,  _ awful _ things!" The former dentist's face fell when he saw her bury her face in her hands and make the kind of pained growl he was used to himself. "I shouldn't have done anything like that in front of you."

"No, you shouldn't have! I don't know what he did, but whatever it was wasn't my fault, or any of the people trying to mourn." She sniffled, wiping at her face as best she could without ruining her makeup. "Look. I'm taking you home, and I'm gonna get icecream and a bad movie, and we're going to watch it and then you're going to tell me what's going on. I've given you space, but you're not coping well, and now you're going to have to try talking."

He simply nodded, keeping his eyes down to the ground. The violets creeping from the cracks in the sidewalk were crushed beneath his shoes, and he wondered briefly if he had done the same with his friendships. Only time would tell.


End file.
